I hoped to have written you more deliberately, if not yesterday—which proved impossible, at least today: but it appears we
must still have a little patience; for never was there less time or deliberation than even now! The work-people, painters
&c &c, are just in the struggles of finishing; they are to go bodily, and we hope for ever, on Wednesday next: but as yet all is Chaos here, and except my own bedroom (where I now write) there is not a rid [clear] corner from top to bottom of the house. Besides which, we ourselves are just packing up to go to The Grange for a
week, and wait there till this end; till at least there is a staircase free where one can travel witht painting one's skirts. Alas, The Grange is not the place where I wanted to rest; and I have struggled hard enough not to
go there or anywhere at present: but it is evidently the reasonable thing to do; a thing Jane has engaged for, and will not (for her share) draw back from; so I submit, what can I do!— This house will evidently be very nice, and much improved, when once
it is set in order again (this day week, it will at least be silent and clean): but the doing of it has cost an immensity of fash! Poor Jane is quite worn out with fretting and struggling, and breathing paint so long: I do not think I ever saw her thinner
these seven years: but if Heaven please, it shall all be over now before long; and poor souls will get settled to their work again, if they can manage to do any.— — I hear from John today a most short word, and write him the like, on his great enterprise:
poor good soul, I hope and believe, and at least pray with my whole heart, it may be a most important improvement for him.
My brave old Mother, he says, takes it bravely, calmly, as she has done all things; which is what I expected, but yet is comfortable
to hear.—I will write again from The Grange: Kindest regards to Jamie & Isabella. Adieu dear Mother, and blessings with you all.— T. Carlyle